"Now press your arms into the doorway frame for 50 seconds." Janet focused on her wristwatch, the second hand slowly stepping forward. Susan's features exchanged its grin in for a frown. 

"It hurts."

Her words were more of an excuse to stop for fear of failure than out of distress. Her mother cheered on, her praise sparking shadows of confidence to pull forth shreds of self-competition. 

"How long has it been?"

"Just five more seconds," her Mother bounced in anticipation of the obvious phenomenon about to present itself hilariously. The rest of the kitchen joined in on the joke-passing occasion, remembering the first time their little arms were denied the right of gravity after playing with a door's frame. 

"Five. Four."

"Three." 

"Two."

"One." 

Susan stepped slowly away from the doorway's frame.
Instantly, her arms dropped off, her digits waving gloriously to all the audience members dropping their drinks. Janet, frozen in time, stopped ticking and dropped, as well. Her heart exploding slight enough to turn her body toward thoughts of rest, eternal ones at best. The thought that she was the cause of her daughter's defect was too much of a memory to live with while sleeping. At least, not a sleep you knew you would eventually wake from, the sun reminding you of the face that brought your so much since its birth. 

The crowd, on the other hand, reflected on themselves. They had witnessed a death they did not try to stop, but became an accomplice to. They were now mourning murderers, some secret madmen amazed at the power of their peer pressure. Yet, they would all stay silent. Their stares and songs would be replaced by reluctance to accept the blame for common circumstance and proper party - etiquette. 

Susan just died. 

Her arms placed in a garbage bag and hidden behind the counter so the crowd could continue nibbling on the refreshments and salvage what wonderful pleasures might still have had the honor of hanging around that evening.